


on longing

by amonglilies



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Heian Period, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Pining, Poetry, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25002391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amonglilies/pseuds/amonglilies
Summary: “For many, poetry is the most honest form of communication,” Sylvain recited loftily, grinning when Felix cast him an annoyed look.“Maybe so,” Felix conceded. “But there are things I trust more than the words one chooses to write.”-The slow courtship between two nobles of the Faerghus court.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 32
Kudos: 185





	on longing

**Author's Note:**

> Ah...another self-indulgent AU…
> 
> Background info: Set in an alternate version of Fódlan, the three house leaders lead the courts of their respective countries. Everyone is a little older than their post timeskip ages, most having served in the army before being appointed to the court. The setting was inspired by Heian-era Japan as it specifically borrows an aspect from the time: the poetry exchange. Courtship among aristocrats was done through poetry: one would send a poem and the recipient would then send a response; a positive response would be followed by a ~ nightly meeting ~, with the visiting party leaving at dawn, writing another poem and continuing exchanges until the relationship ended or they were married. Please note that this is absolutely not historically accurate as it still retains some canon elements. I just really love...courtship rituals…
> 
> If you’re interested, [here is a paper I read that talks about it more in-depth.](https://kb.osu.edu/bitstream/handle/1811/25243/jThesisFinal.pdf?sequence=1&isAllowed=y) I read the poems there and excerpts from The Ink Dark Moon, a translation of poems written by Ono no Komachi and Izumi Shikibu for inspiration for the poems I wrote (sorry). 
> 
> Anyway. This is unbeta’d lmao

Written on snow-white paper, sent with a comb adorned with carved wooden plum blossoms:

_Like a flower on  
a high snow-capped peak, blooming  
as if it were spring:  
you remain out of reach — still  
I hope for another glance_

Prior to this night, Sylvain had only ever heard her voice, seen her silhouette through the bamboo screens. He had heard rumors of her beauty, how she was shielded by her protective father who wished to find her a proper suitor to elevate his status; Sylvain had gone to great lengths to find a messenger bold enough to attempt to pass along his poem along with an accompanying gift she could not refuse.

“My father would be incensed to hear that you’ve managed to see me,” she sighed as Sylvain kissed her shoulder.

“You won’t tell him, will you?” Sylvain asked. “I would hate to be killed by a fellow courtier.”

She laughed. “I had asked him to retrieve a few things for me while he’s away,” she whispered coyly. “They’re quite difficult to find. He will be gone for a week at least.”

Sylvain ran his hand down her waist, fingers brushing against her robes. Young ladies who rarely ventured outside their homes had more chances to wear the gifts they received, like the comb nestled in her hair that he had sent her with his message, like her robes that were made of an exquisite cloth suited for a much warmer climate. “How fortuitous,” he said, touching her hand. “What kinds of things? Perhaps I can send them to you next time.”

-

Sylvain was aware of his reputation — it was carefully crafted. He didn’t mind rumors around his character as they served their own purpose; no one thought much of a womanizer, an untrustworthy man able to charm almost as easily as he could offend, who was lucky enough to have inherited his court position from his father, using it to find beautiful women to keep him company at night. Being unreliable made for a sufficient guise, but there were times when there was no way around the plain disadvantage.

“That makes four potential traitors in our court,” Dimitri murmured, gesturing for Sylvain to sit after Sylvain informed him of what he had learned the night before.

Sylvain nodded, sitting beside him. “That we know of so far.”

Rubbing his chin, Dimitri sighed, troubled. “It is very concerning. This, along with the rumors that even you seek to control the court yourself.”

Meeting Dimitri’s gaze, Sylvain smiled. “You know me well enough to know that I’m hardly that ambitious, Your Highness.”

Dimitri managed a small smile, able to let his guard down in the privacy of the king’s quarters. It was easy to forget he was younger than he looked, with the way he held himself in court. “I know,” he said, sighing again. “But you understand how it would look to oust nobles who have held positions for so long on the word of an old friend, especially one who partakes in the same vices as my uncle.”

Sylvain certainly didn’t envy Dimitri’s position. They were all officers only a few years ago, glorified foot soldiers, before they were thrust into court politics out of sheer necessity; having ascended the throne after his uncle was forced to abdicate, Dimitri, uncertain of who he could trust in his court, was only able to choose a few of his own advisors. “I’m hoping to find proof soon.”

“Even with proof, it may not be enough,” Dimitri said, looking to his side at Dedue, who nodded as he produced a scroll from his sleeve.

“It is always wise to prepare for the worst,” Dedue said quietly as Sylvain opened it, looking at him.

Sylvain glanced back down at the scroll — a map of Fódlan, projected battle lines already drawn and battalions assigned. As expected of Dimitri. Sylvain’s eyes lingered on the names, one in particular. “There’s only so much that can be done through killing, Your Highness,” Sylvain said. Dedue met his gaze as if to agree, but they both turned to Dimitri, his stern demeanor returning.

“We aren’t children anymore, Sylvain. You don’t need to protect us.” Dimitri gazed at Sylvain with his single eye, glancing at the scroll. “Certainly not him.”

Sylvain closed the scroll, handing it back to Dedue. “Some habits are difficult to break.”

-

In Fhirdiad, there was always something to do, but today, unlike most days, Sylvain had a singular goal. After leaving the king’s quarters, he enjoyed a walk in the brisk winter wind, walking through the halls, smiling at the giggling attendants as he made his way to a seldom-visited part of the castle, the grating noise of clashing swords growing louder. He soon found himself in the training grounds, his deep red robes out of place among the navy blue uniforms.

“Lord Gautier,” a voice said, surprised. “It’s rare to see you here.”

Sylvain glanced through the groups of soldiers and training dummies before turning back. “I may be of the court now, Ashe, but we’ve endured enough hardships together for you to call me ‘Sylvain’,” he chided with an easy smile. “Hard at work?”

Clad in the same uniform as the other soldiers, Ashe slung his bow over his quiver, squaring his shoulders. “Of course. How else am I to be inducted into the king’s guard?”

Ashe’s good spirits were quite blinding, but refreshing as always. “Very industrious,” Sylvain drawled. “Keep at it.”

Huffing a laugh at Sylvain’s half-hearted encouragement, Ashe looked around. “I believe Lady Galatea is around, if you’re looking for someone to spar with.”

Already feeling the phantom ache of the bruise Ingrid had given him last time they sparred, Sylvain drew his fan out of his sleeve, waving it dismissively. “I’m afraid I’m not up for it today,” he said airily, opening the fan to hide his smile. “I do have the privilege of lazing about now. It would be a shame not to use it.”

Ashe cast him a disapproving look. “Maybe so, but you should take your duties more seriously.”

“You’ll call me ‘Lord’ in one breath and criticize me in the next,” Sylvain sighed.

“I mean to tell you as a friend,” Ashe said, amused. “I’ve heard some believe you to be a kitsune.”

“That’s a lofty thing to call a simple pervert," a voice commented behind them.

Sylvain turned to meet a baleful amber-eyed gaze. “Just the man I was looking for,” he declared. “Don’t you ever tire of training, Lord Fraldarius?”

His footsteps barely audible against the hardwood floor, Felix approached them, the sapphire blue sleeves of his robes drawn up to his shoulders, his sword still in hand. A bead of sweat trickled down his jaw. “Ashe is right. You’d do well to pick up your lance every now and then.”

Sylvain could practically feel Ashe’s glowing admiration behind him; some things really hadn't changed from their days in the army. He looked past Felix at the group of exhausted soldiers resting after what must have been a grueling sparring session. His gaze swept down Felix’s toned arms as he hummed. “Perhaps another time. If you’re done demoralizing our own army, I have something to discuss with you.”

Felix sheathed his sword. “What is it?”

“There’s something I need help with,” Sylvain said, snapping his fan closed. “So I thought I’d come and ask you.”

-

The cloth fluttered in the air, the thread glinting in the light before it settled around Felix’s shoulders. “You couldn’t have Ingrid do this?”

Surrounded by spools of thread and fabric in Mercedes’ parlor, Sylvain sat at a nearby table as Felix stood in front of a large mirror, Mercedes adjusting the fabric around his body and fastening them in place. “You’re about the same size anyway,” Sylvain said, resting his cheek on his hand. “I fear the reflex to hit me will be too difficult for her to resist.”

In the mirror, Felix’s eyes narrowed sharply. “So you prefer a swift death instead.”

Smiling, Sylvain ignored him to meet Mercedes’ amused expression as she retrieved more bolts of cloth. “These patterns are beautiful,” he told her.

Supplying everything from food to fabric for the castle, Mercedes had access to all kinds of stock through her merchant company. “I’ve had some of these lying around for the longest time,” she said wistfully. “They're a bit too extravagant for courtwear so I’m happy to finally have a use for them. I envy the young miss who will be receiving these robes.”

Once Mercedes finished the measurements, she excused herself to prepare the robes with her attendants, leaving the two of them with tea as they waited. Felix straightened out his clothes, retying his messy bun as Sylvain poured him a cup.

"So what's the reason you've asked for me?" Felix asked quietly as he took his seat. "Unless you truly do have a deathwish."

Sylvain smiled. "Can't I admire you in beautiful clothing?" He set his cup down when Felix leveled another glare at him. "Ah, but you’re right. I do require your assistance for a delicate matter."

Felix sighed, disturbing the steam wafting from his cup before he took a sip. "You know very well I’m uninterested in the court politics you involve yourself with."

“I wouldn’t trouble you if it wasn’t necessary,” Sylvain said. “It pertains to the whispers of an impending war.”

Felix gave pause, his eyes flitting to his, a sign for him to continue.

“A few months ago, my attendants confirmed that Tomas had been slinking about at night, holding furtive meetings with various members of our court, many of whom have been quite critical of Dimitri in recent months. I’ve discovered that those same courtiers have been making mysterious trips to the Adrestian Empire. I suspect that Tomas has been influencing them, though I don’t know to what end.”

“You’ve been busy.” Felix set down his cup. “You couldn’t simply report this to Dimitri?”

Sylvain traced the rim of his cup. “I have. But it’s a heavy accusation that can’t be held up by a mere suspicion or my word alone. Tomas wields his own power within the court, well beyond mine. I won’t undermine Dimitri’s power for the sake of my pride, so I will need more information.”

“And how do you intend to get that?”

“I’ve been striking up conversations with him.” When Felix looked at him, exasperated, Sylvain shrugged. “I was curious to see if he was interested in bringing me into the fold. If he wished to sway Dimitri’s opinions on certain issues, surely having his closest advisor on his side would be enticing. He already thinks I only use my position in court to play around. He has agreed to meet me outside the castle tonight so that we may speak more openly. There, I intend to confirm my suspicions.” Sylvain took another sip of tea. “And I would like you to accompany me, disguised.”

Felix sighed, clearly already exhausted with the conversation, though still he asked. "And why do I have to be disguised?"

"You said it yourself. You make no effort hiding your disdain for court politics. Tomas will be suspicious if you were to suddenly arrive with the intention to help with his schemes." Smiling when Felix huffed, Sylvain continued. "It’s difficult to deny the testimony of a general, old friend or not. You don’t play court politics or make frivolous claims and that makes your word reliable. No one could fault Dimitri for trusting your judgment.”

“Then can’t I just kill Tomas now and be done with it?” Felix said flatly.

“If there _is_ a conspiracy, it won’t end with Tomas. This meeting will hopefully give us the information we need to weed it out of our court.”

Felix scowled, as he had no rebuttal. “Even now, you drag me into your nonsense,” he grumbled.

Sylvain smiled. “Imagine how dull your life would be without me.”

Felix met Sylvain’s gaze. “How do you know this plan of yours will work?”

“I don’t,” Sylvain answered. “But at least if he chooses to kill me first, it will be in front of a trustworthy witness.”

Felix opened his mouth, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door — Mercedes signalling her return. She slid open the door, a robe folded over her arm. “I’d like to make sure the first layer fits,” she informed them, blinking, her gaze shifting between them, as if detecting the tension.

Felix’s mouth clicked shut, jaw clenched; he cast Sylvain a sharp look before he stood, taking the robe from Mercedes before she moved to pull a screen over so he could dress in private.

“Will you do it?” Sylvain asked, pouring himself another cup of tea as Felix stepped behind the screen.

Felix’s clothes rustled as they fell to the floor. Felix sighed. “Of course.”

-

“I’m going to kill you myself,” Felix muttered as the carriage stopped in a front of a brothel, the sounds of drunken laughter spilling out of the entrance along with men in loosened clothes, fumbling with even looser wallets.

Even with half of his face hidden behind the painted red camellias on Sylvain’s fan, Felix drew the gaze of many as Sylvain helped him out of the carriage. Usually dressed in muted dark blues, white and silver despite his court rank, Felix was breathtaking in crimson, the edge of the kimono embroidered with gold thread, patterned with red chrysanthemums. Though his usual colors accentuated the amber of his eyes, that would only serve as a risk of being recognized.

“I have a reputation to maintain,” Sylvain said with a smile as he held Felix close to his side, walking between him and the rowdy men as he led him into the brothel. Upon seeing Sylvain, the matron bowed in greeting and showed them to the room. Sylvain had asked to meet in a brothel, with the caveat of Tomas choosing the specific one; perhaps he was concerned that Sylvain would attempt an assassination himself. Brothels were staunchly neutral, tight-lipped about who frequented their establishments and vehemently against involving themselves in complicated affairs; it wasn’t good business if they were easily bribed for information, if they developed a reputation for allowing trouble to inconvenience their patrons.

They walked through the halls, the noisy, boisterous conversations in the main room unable to drown out the sound of lewd sighs and moans, the rhythmic thumping above them. Tasteless as it was, it made eavesdropping fairly difficult. Arriving at the room, the matron opened the door for them; they stepped inside, the screen sliding shut behind them.

“Lord Gautier,” Tomas greeted, bowing. His kind, elderly face was out of place in such a seedy place, but he appeared unfazed. “I was unaware you would be bringing a guest.”

Sylvain held out his hand for Felix to hold; Felix’s eyes said all he needed to know as he took it, gracefully kneeling on the cushion, his robes settling around him like flower petals. Sylvain took his seat beside him, pulling Felix closer. Felix subtly dug his elbow into his side. “A bit of business and pleasure. I hope you don’t mind,” Sylvain said irreverently, not mentioning the two guards Tomas had brought with him.

Tomas looked at Felix; Felix quickly averted his gaze, careful to keep his face hidden behind the fan, his hand in his long sleeves as Sylvain gently squeezed his hip.

“A bit shy. First time, I believe,” Sylvain said apologetically. He lifted his hand to run his fingers through Felix’s long hair, let loose down his shoulders. “I couldn’t resist.”

Casting Felix one more look, Tomas turned to Sylvain. “I won’t keep you for long then,” he assured him with a smile.

-

The meeting had gone as well as he could have hoped. His suspicions were confirmed; Tomas was looking to usurp Dimitri, attempting to sway courtiers over to his side. Relieved that Felix hadn’t manage to hide any weapons as he stewed silently in anger beside him, Sylvain managed to weasel out a few more names out of Tomas, telling him he wasn’t going to betray Dimitri without knowing who his allies were. Tomas relented, assuring him that if he were to aid them — “Peacefully, of course,” Tomas had said, his weakest lie yet — then Sylvain would be given free reign to do as he pleased within the new court.

After the meeting, Sylvain called for the matron, asking for a room — one he had furtively reserved in advance. For the right price, the brothel still allowed for arrangements for a preferred room — private, with no room for potential assailants to hide. Rather than risk being followed out in the open, it was safer to stay the night. They left the meeting room, remaining quiet as the matron led them to their room. Sylvain closed the screen doors behind them, turning around to look around the room, then at Felix. All it took was a glance for him to understand: they had indeed been followed — likely by the guards who had accompanied Tomas. Sylvain suspected Tomas would be suspicious of them; Tomas was careful, having managed to conceal his treasonous aspirations for so long.

Sylvain caught a glimpse of the shadows sitting by the door. He stepped forward, catching Felix’s hand, already instinctively going to his waist to reach for a sword that wasn’t there. Felix glared, annoyed at having to maintain the charade, but understood. They needed to wait; there was nothing that could be done about them simply deciding to sit outside their room to eavesdrop, to watch their shadows.

“Shall we have a drink?” Sylvain asked lightly, gesturing to the table where two cups and a bottle of wine were already provided.

Like puppets in a shadow play, they moved, hand in hand, sitting beside each other, their backs to the screen door. Felix reached for the bottle, careful to hold back his long sleeves as he poured into the two cups, pushing one toward Sylvain with two hands. He glared again at Sylvain’s amused smile.

“Not much of a talker,” Sylvain remarked as they drank. “But I suppose I didn’t bring you here for conversation.”

Felix cast him a sidelong glance as he lowered his cup to the table with a soft tap.

They both knew, as everyone did, about Sylvain’s reputation — the kinds of stories and rumors that made its rounds about the court. He was known for being shameless, a frequent patron of establishments like these, despite his numerous affairs with the women of the court. Any deviation of behavior now would be suspicious, especially when he had someone as beautiful as Felix with him.

Sylvain snaked an arm around Felix’s waist, the silk sliding smoothly against his palm as he pulled him closer against his side. “Shall I teach you something about seduction?” He asked, smiling when Felix met his gaze. “It’s all about anticipation."

He had learned, in his years of philandering, that there were all kinds of secrets that could be drawn out when someone was in the clutches of desire. The hitch of one’s breath meant there was a secret lodged in their throat, ready to be freed; the slow movement of their gaze meant there was something that could be bargained for. His fingertips trailed down Felix’s powdered cheek, past his painted lips, down the column of his throat. Felix’s skin was warm, soft in contrast to his sword-calloused hands.

Sylvain waited. Felix’s gaze flicked to the side, then back to him, his lips drawn taut. The shadows were still there. The robes fluttered, spreading out on the tatami as Sylvain laid Felix down on his back. There was a time when this sort of thing would have flustered Felix, when he would have lost his temper and composure, but that was when they were younger; Felix was unfazed, holding his gaze as he lifted his hand too, to settle against Sylvain’s neck, his fingers resting over his steady pulse.

Watching Felix watch him, he moved deliberately, nudging Felix’s legs open to fit himself in between, ashamed of the pang of disappointment he felt upon feeling the undergarments against his thigh. This wasn’t a stranger or a person with a secret he needed. This was someone he trusted, someone who trusted him in return. Running his hand down Felix’s chest, Sylvain glanced again toward the door. Still there.

Leaning over Felix, he bowed his head, his lips by Felix’s ear. “I’m sorry for this,” he whispered, resting his temple against his.

Moving his hand down, Sylvain held it against himself, using it as a barrier before he began to move his hips, groaning softly. He had faked it enough times with courtesans who were more than happy to be paid to simply make noise for the sake of his rumors; he knew exactly what kinds of sounds to make, for how long, how to move his body. His ears burned with shame, subjecting Felix to this, but he felt Felix’s hand on his neck again, his thumb stroking his jaw. Sylvain closed his eyes.

Even now, he still trusted him.

“Just a little longer,” Sylvain whispered in between grunts, Felix’s hair shifting as he nodded.

Sylvain had been careful with every detail in preparing Felix's disguise; the perfume on Felix’s neck was heavily floral, yet with every breath, Sylvain felt as though he was drowning in Felix’s scent, musk mixed with the scent of sandalwood. Sweat trickled down his neck; this close, he could hear Felix’s every breath, could feel it brushing against the tip of his ear, his mind filling in the empty sighs with the kinds of whispers he wished to hear. Against his better judgment, he lifted his head to steal a glance; he had expected annoyance, disgust. He had prepared himself, even, for hatred.

Instead, he saw Felix’s eyes half-closed, his lips parted as he panted softly. Some of the face powder had been rubbed away, exposing the bright pink flush of his cheek. Distracted, Sylvain jerked his hips too hard, his hand bumping against Felix; a soft gasp escaped Felix’s lips before Felix bit down to stifle the noise, a faint whine trapped in his throat. Sylvain’s heart pounded faster than hummingbird wings, realizing he could feel Felix, straining through his undergarments.

Quickly turning his face downward again and pushing his forehead against the floor, he let out one last immodest groan, his body twitching before growing still. Panting noisily, he turned his head just enough to see the shadows begin to move away, apparently satisfied with his performance. He didn’t dare look at Felix’s face again as he pulled away, Felix’s fingertips brushing against his cheek; he was careful to pull Felix’s robes closed where it had loosened before turning away. The cloth rustled, shifting against the floor as Felix sat up; Sylvain adjusted his own clothes to hide his arousal, breathing deeply, quietly, to quell his rapidly beating heart.

“So it’s true that anyone will do for you,” he heard Felix murmur.

Sylvain forced out a short laugh. Felix’s body had been so warm underneath his, but Sylvain felt strangely cold.

-

_There is a choice made,  
between wanting and having.  
When my yearning burns,  
I retreat to my dreams and  
sink like a stone in water._

There were stories of men who found themselves wrought with yearning from a stolen glance alone, their lives ruined by a screen mistakenly pulled aside, the mere sight of a sleeve, a wisp of hair — he once thought it was an exaggeration, something only read in books, merely a romantic notion to be possessed by such desire.

Sleep was always elusive. The nights Sylvain spent coaxing out secrets were rarely spent slumbering; sleeping alone had its own drawbacks. He often found himself wandering the halls and courtyards of the castle late into the night, chatting with fellow night owls, though Dimitri had reprimanded him for accidentally scaring the attendants when he roamed the grounds with his lantern.

Deep in another sleepless night, Sylvain found himself standing in front of Felix’s quarters. Felix was away, sent to track down the traitors who had managed to flee after he made his accusations to the court. Glancing down the empty halls, Sylvain pulled open the door and stepped through.

Felix’s room was spartan, furnished more like an armory; Felix stored his weaponry and armor, but few personal effects, aside from a small shrine in the corner. The room was hardly welcoming, much less tidy, but still Sylvain found it comfortable, found solace here whenever he came looking for Felix to air his grievances about some matter or another or complain about another courtier. After lighting a stick of incense for the shrine, he took a turn about the room — Felix truly had a ludicrous number of swords. Coming across the chest where Felix kept his clothes, he paused for a moment of consideration before kneeling and opening it. The first garment was a plain white silk kimono — Felix’s sleeping robe. After another longer pause, Sylvain reached for it, running his fingers against it before he lifted it and breathed, the familiar scent warming his body.

The memory of that night came flooding back — Felix’s hand on his skin, his body underneath his, prone and vulnerable, the irresistible flush of his skin that would have undoubtedly darkened if he had taken the chance to press his lips to it. Felix’s clear arousal as Sylvain moved above him. Sylvain couldn’t help but wonder how that night would have gone if the shadows hadn’t left, if he could have taken Felix then, could have had him under the guise of selling a lie. If Felix would have let him. Perhaps it would have been enough, given him the closure to rebury the emotions he had pledged to abandon when he had chosen to become a deceiver for the sake of his country.

He put the robe down, softly shutting the lid. It seemed there was still a romantic left in him even after all this time.

Despite the smell of incense filling his head like a warning, he still went to Felix’s futon, lying down, Felix’s scent enveloping him. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine Felix lying beside him, his sleeping face. Sylvain would admit to wondering if Felix had ever taken a lover, would admit to keeping an eye and an ear to any rumors of that strain; the mere thought of it was enough to make Sylvain turn restlessly, pressing his face deeper into Felix’s pillow with a quiet groan.

For the first time in what felt like years, Sylvain drifted to a deep sleep, dreaming of amber eyes welling with tears, filled with worry, flashing dangerously like steel, watching him. Those same eyes looking up into his, dark. Hair fanned out on the tatami floor, shimmering like dark ocean water. In the dream, he did not draw away that night — instead parting the red chrysanthemums, uncovering a secret he had always wanted to learn. Listened to soft breaths, his name whispered by a husky voice, before he sunk into the warmth, indulging in every desire.

This was the lie he had told himself for years: that he was content with Felix’s companionship, the privilege of laying eyes on him despite wanting far more. He thought he knew the stories, understood how they manipulated the impressionable minds of those who wished for love, but indeed, all it had taken was a single glimpse of what he desired most to come undone.

-

“You look well-rested,” Felix remarked as Sylvain neared. “I had heard you passed out drunk in my room a few nights ago.”

Sylvain held his fan up to his nose. Yellow hyacinths today — not a good color to hide a flush. “And here I thought you were above listening to gossip.”

“My attendants tell me things too.”

Even as they grew older, some things didn’t change; Felix still preferred the same kinds of places he did when they were children — quiet places away from people, but still close enough to observe from afar. Today, Felix was standing by a pond and a small cherry blossom tree, hidden away behind a cropping of bamboo. Sylvain stood beside him, following Felix’s gaze; together, they watched the messengers and attendants hurrying down the paths connecting the buildings, courtiers milling about in the courtyard.

“You’ve been away for a while,” Sylvain commented, lowering and closing his fan, unneeded when he was with Felix.

“Tomas’ conspiracy extends beyond Fhirdiad. Skirmishes have been breaking out throughout the provinces.”

Sylvain glanced at Felix. “I hope you’re being careful.”

Felix glanced back. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

A swordsman as skilled as Felix hardly needed protecting but still, the urge to take up his lance again flared; Sylvain didn’t miss the labors of military life but it eased his worries to fight beside Felix, even if it meant merely serving as a body that could take a blow for him — though Felix had made his thoughts on that very clear to Sylvain the first and last time he had done so.

Felix’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “I received a poem when I returned.”

His brows raised, Sylvain turned, watching Felix pull a roll of paper from his sleeve. He took it — Felix had never shared the poetry he received from his admirers before, usually forgetting about them, leaving them to be discovered by an attendant who would take it to a scribe to have it archived. It didn’t happen often, as it was rare for women to be bold enough to initiate an exchange first, but anyone who knew Felix would know their best hope would be to receive a polite reply, however terse.

Carefully unfurling it, Sylvain took note of the paper first — smooth, a beautiful shade of tan, expensive. A light floral scent emanated from it. The penmanship of the sender was impressive, as well as the skillfully painted wisteria flowers framing the inscription. “They know about your wisteria,” Sylvain said as he read the poem — _I could only hope/to shade you beneath my sleeves_. The wisteria tree near the edge of the courtyard was one of Felix’s common haunts, a favorite place of his to rest after training. “It seems someone has had their eye on you for a while.”

“Do you recognize the writing?”

Sylvain canted his head, thinking; he did. Then he blinked. “Are you interested?”

Felix met his gaze. “What if I was?”

It took a few heartbeats for Sylvain to recognize the tightness in his chest. The thought of Felix writing a reply, meeting a suitor at night — “I will give you the name, if that’s what you desire,” Sylvain said evenly, returning the paper to him.

Felix tucked it away, gazing out at the pond. “What are they like?”

Sylvain managed a light laugh in spite of the furious jealousy stewing in the pit of his stomach. “The purpose of a poetic exchange is to find out for yourself.”

The water stirred, the koi breaking the surface as it swum in lazy circles. "I’ve never understood how a person’s character could be gauged from words alone.”

“We shared the same tutors, didn’t we? Studying poetry and literature."

“I never cared much for studying,” Felix said. “I spent more time training instead.”

Sylvain smiled, knowing that to be true. “Not everything can be expressed with a sword.”

“It’s more straightforward than poetry.”

“For many, poetry is the most honest form of communication,” Sylvain recited loftily, grinning when Felix cast him an annoyed look.

“Maybe so,” Felix conceded. “But there are things I trust more than the words one chooses to write.”

"As you should," Sylvain agreed. "Still, it is, at its heart, a conversation. And like a conversation, it's not just the words that convey what the person means to say."

Felix merely hummed in response, tucking his hands in his sleeves. The two of them settled into silence, waiting for one of their attendants to come looking for them for some matter or another, as they always eventually did. Sylvain took a breath of the fresh spring air, looking up at the cherry blossom tree, its flowers about to bloom.

-

“Struggling with a poem?” Dorothea asked as she settled beside him. “That’s rare.”

Sylvain made a noncommittal noise as he rifled through her collection of papers. As a traveling performer, Dorothea collected all kinds of rarities; she took care to have the proper materials on hand wherever she went, as she often received poems from love-struck suitors after her performances. He had found a kindred spirit in her; not only a famous opera singer, she was also a talented poet who possessed a critical eye, open to looking through his poem drafts.

“It’s changed.”

“Hm?”

Dorothea tapped her cheek thoughtfully. “Your poetry.”

Sylvain glanced at her. “For good or worse?”

“Good,” she said, surprised.

“I don’t mean to sound haughty, but I thought I was already quite good,” Sylvain remarked.

Dorothea cast him a sidelong glance. “Anyone knows to call a flower beautiful,” she said wryly. “You’ve abandoned your delicate words.”

"The recipient I have in mind isn’t very fond of platitudes,” he murmured absently, rubbing each sheet of paper between his fingertips.

“Oh?” Dorothea leaned forward, a sly look on her face. “Has the day come? Is Lord Gautier finally penning an honest poem?”

He managed a short laugh. “Maybe. Though I don’t know if I should send it.”

The paper crinkled as Dorothea set it down, picking up her cup of tea. “A war approaches, Sylvain,” she said, as though she were commenting on the weather. “There will soon be no time for regret.”

To outsiders, their relationship would appear to be another affair, Sylvain being one of Dorothea’s many known lovers. In truth, they were merely friends. Dorothea, who he had met when he was a soldier, had approached him with an offer when he was to join the Faerghus court; their meetings at the inn she stayed at when she passed through Fhirdiad were disguised as trysts as she shared information she gathered during her travels, at the private performances her opera company arranged for those in power all over Fódlan, seeking to undermine the conspiracy that had long already taken hold of her country, that was moving to take more. She was the one who had first warned him of Tomas, who she had seen conversing with those of the Adrestian court.

And she was right; despite their work in the shadows with others across Fódlan, even with the quiet aid of the Leicester Alliance, a war appeared to be inevitable. Still, Sylvain hesitated. “It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything sincere,” he admitted.

“Is it to someone you know?”

“Yes,” Sylvain said softly. “Very well.”

“Then be honest,” she said simply. “It doesn’t have to sound beautiful.”

“I find that difficult advice to stomach coming from a songstress.”

She laughed softly. “You know as well as I do that it's not the words people find beautiful. It’s the music, the voice singing it. The images, the feelings that arise when they hear the song.” She looked at him. “Is it not the same for poetry?”

-

“Sylvain,” Annette chirped, her head poking into his room. “I have something for you.”

Sylvain gestured for her to enter, collecting his papers. Holed up in the library with the other scribes, Annette had expressed her desire to improve her own poetry; when she found the time, she came to Sylvain to study the ones he wrote, the ones he received for her to expand her horizons beyond flowers and changing seasons. She entered, holding what appeared to be a tied bundle of cloth carefully in her hands as she knelt on the other side of his table before she handed it to Sylvain. “You could have sent a messenger,” Sylvain said, looking at the bundle curiously.

“Felix had handed it to me before he left this morning,” she said, already turning her attention to the poems. “He asked me to deliver it to you since I mentioned that I was going to see you today.”

Making a mental note to chide Felix for passing off tasks to Annette, Sylvain untied the bundle, pulling away the cloth only to see more cloth, soft white silk. He lifted it, recognizing it to be a robe before he was distracted by a fan dropping out from the folds. He caught, blinking at the familiarity of it before he opened it, revealing painted red camellias and an inscription hiding among them:

_After all these years,  
have I not kept our promise?  
You covet a gaze  
already loyal to you.  
Longing is a fool’s hardship_

Sylvain reread the poem over and over, his heart thudding in his chest. “Did he pass along a message?” He asked faintly as he ran his fingers over the fading ink.

“He said you would know what to do with it.” She looked up, peeking, letting out an admiring sigh. “Such beautiful writing.”

“Do you recognize it?”

Annette looked closer as Sylvain tilted it toward her. She hummed, furrowing her brow. “I don’t believe so,” she said slowly, perplexed. “How curious. I should know everyone’s handwriting.”

“It’s not Felix’s?”

Annette laughed. “Even if I could entertain the thought of Felix writing a poem, I know his script — it drives the other scribes mad trying to read it."

Sylvain smiled. He should have expected that Felix could wield a brush with the same skill he wielded a sword when he cared to.

“It’s awfully abstract,” Annette mumbled with a sigh, looking back at the poems, her brow furrowed.

The poem committed to memory, Sylvain carefully closed the fan, setting it aside. “Think of it,” he said, “like music.”

In his lap, he kept the cloth, running his fingers along the collar of Felix's sleeping robe.

-

Sylvain struggled with a response for nights, grateful, for once, that Felix was away. His mind filled with themes, with seasons and flowers, with pretty words — all useless in finding the right words to say. The paper sat on his table, as it had for many nights, blank.

Sighing, Sylvain ran a hand through his hair, frustrated, looking out toward the open screen door. A breeze rolled through the door, lifting the blankets of his futon, the paper on his table, as he gazed up at the night sky, the full moon illuminating the courtyard.

Sylvain stared at the moon, unblinking. He thought again of love, of Felix, then remembered:

_The full moon hung high.  
Blood seeping into the ground.  
The night black as ink.  
Mercedes’ voice as she prayed.  
Soldiers tending to the dead._

“I’m sorry.”

Sylvain tore his gaze from the hem of his robes, stained with his blood — not his blood, he reminded himself. He lifted his head, meeting amber eyes, bright like jewels in the moonlight.

“I took the pleasure of killing him myself.”

The stories told him love was something beautiful, soft, bright and passionate like fire. For him, he realized, it was this: the heavy dark, the night Sylvain kept his first secret, Felix’s hands outstretched as he presented his sword to Sylvain to take back to his father as proof, Miklan’s blood drying in the sheath. An act of violence that felt more like an act of love.

-

Delivered with a sword, the Fraldarius crest carved in its hilt:

_Call me a fool then.  
But I covet not only  
the gaze, but the heart  
that moves it. Do what you will —  
I wait with this promised heart_

Sylvain rose quickly from his seat at the sound of a knock on his door. He took a breath before he moved to slide open the doors, hoping his heart would finally settle after three nights of anxious waiting since he sent his response.

Of course, his heartbeat only quickened upon seeing Felix standing in front of him, even though he knew to expect him, having received word just this morning from Felix's messenger. In his hands, Felix had brought the usual: a bottle of wine, two cups. He met his gaze; Sylvain stepped aside to let him in.

“Have you been back for long?” Sylvain asked after he shut the doors softly.

“I returned late last night,” Felix answered.

Neither of them moved. Sylvain was well aware of the ritual they had undertaken. Felix had initiated the exchange and Sylvain had responded in kind. Now that Felix was here, it was clear what was next; this was to be their first night together, a test of compatibility, a night to sate their mutual desire, with the potential for more. If it were anyone else, Sylvain would have prepared in advance — topics for conversation, compliments.

But this was Felix.

Sylvain had never been the one to be visited for nights like these, the one to be pursued. When Felix remained rooted in place, Sylvain decided to move first, going to his table, taking his usual seat on his futon. Felix followed, but instead of sitting on the opposite side, he sat beside him, setting down the bottle and the cups on the table.

As if it were the usual social call, Felix poured for them and they drank. Indeed, they had spent many nights together at this table, on opposite sides, sharing wine like this, conversing sometimes, but often not, simply content with each other’s company. Back when they were soldiers, Felix had often brushed off Sylvain’s invitations to train and Sylvain had spent his nights carousing with women without care; their friendship was one of friendly antagonism and light teasing, sustained by their parallel lives. In the years since, they had grown closer as they calmed in their own ways — Felix, further from the grief of his brother’s death, learning to find peace in occasional idleness, and Sylvain, restricting his affairs to only what was necessary to fulfill his duties. Though they still engaged in the occasional banter, they had settled into a comfortable friendship, one where they could speak freely with each other of the things that were not already understood, one built on an unshakable trust. It was something Sylvain was deeply grateful for, something he cherished.

He had never dared to dream of having anything more than that.

It was easier to resist temptation when there was his table between them. A few locks of Felix’s hair fell loose from his bun, fastened precariously with a single silver hairpin; they framed his face, his eyes bright even in the low light. Having Felix so close again, Sylvain couldn’t help but touch, lifting his hand to tuck away the errant strands, to linger and stroke Felix’s cheek with his thumb.

Felix did not pull away. He leaned into his touch, turning to meet his gaze, blinking slowly. He lifted his chin, as if in waiting, but Sylvain turned away, cursing his own cowardice, drawing away to pour another cup for them. He drank hastily as Felix reached for his own cup, the wine trickling from the corner of his mouth and down his chin; he felt Felix’s fingers brush against his skin as he caught the drops.

“What kind of things do you talk about?” Felix asked, licking the wine off his fingers. “With your lovers?”

Sylvain couldn’t remember. It was unbearable — Felix’s body soft and relaxed against his, his scent, the warm brush of his breath against his cheek, his hand resting on his thigh. “The poems,” he answered faintly, though poetry was the last thing on his mind.

Felix hummed, uninterested. “What else?” His hand slipped underneath Sylvain’s robes — Sylvain shivered at the first brush of his fingers against the bare skin of his thigh. “Or would you prefer not to talk?” He glanced at the robe folded by Sylvain’s futon — his robe. “I’m assuming that has lost its use by now.”

Felix’s hand moved slowly, his fingertip lightly tracing a line up his thigh. Sylvain’s breath hitched as it drew higher, his legs tensing, skin prickling as sweat broke out. “Felix,” he whispered, not knowing what else to do.

His hand stopped, drawing away to touch Sylvain's fist, white-knuckled as Sylvain pressed down against his thigh. “Is this not what you want?” Felix asked quietly. Sylvain quickly caught his hand before he could pull away, before he could stop himself, his body moving on instinct, despite knowing he should have let him go.

His heart in his throat, Sylvain finally looked at Felix, pained by the uncertainty in his expression. “It’s not a matter of want."

Felix looked into his eyes, searching. “Isn’t it?”

It had been too long since Sylvain last followed his own desire. Even now, with Felix in his hands, offering himself to him, Sylvain longed for him, the ache of it stronger than it had ever been, even stronger than when he thought he had no hope. He had fallen too deeply in his reawakened desire, forgetting about all of the things he should have considered before he sent Felix his reply — his reputation, how it would affect Felix’s, their duties, the fact that he couldn’t make the kinds of promises a lover could make, the kinds of promises Felix deserved. It wouldn’t be enough to have him for a night, even for more than a night — not when he knew there would be nights in between when he would have to lay with another, when he would have to say the kinds of things he only wanted Felix to hear.

Sylvain clasped Felix’s hand between his, lowering his head to brush his lips against his fingers. “What I want is to belong to you,” he whispered, anguished. He loved Felix, but surely there would come a day when what he could offer him wouldn’t be enough.

Yes, it would hurt less to never have him than it would to lose him. Slowly, painfully, he let go of Felix’s hand, vowing to never reach for his warmth again, only to feel it again on his face. Felix lifted his chin, forcing him to look at him again. “Then belong to me."

Before Sylvain could say a word, Felix pulled him in, their lips meeting softly. Sylvain curled his fingers against Felix’s robes; Felix sighed as if in relief as he kissed him, again and again, drawing away a moment at a time to meet his gaze before pressing his lips against his, against the corner of his mouth, his cheek. The night’s silence was punctuated with Sylvain’s quiet gasps as Felix nipped his ear, kissing along his jaw; his body grew hotter as Felix’s hands grew bolder, pushing his robes off his shoulders. He felt Felix's fingers trace the long, jagged scar on his chest — made years ago by a blow meant for Felix. His robes fell open as Felix yanked his sash loose. Sylvain had never been the one to be so passive, to be the one undressed, to be wanted like this.

Pinned under Felix’s heated gaze, Sylvain panted, half-naked, his robes pooled around him. Felix took his hand, pulling it toward himself; he pressed Sylvain’s palm against his neck, his skin hot to touch, before he moved Sylvain’s hand down slowly, pushing his own robes open as he dragged it down his chest, over his nipple. He let go, to let Sylvain explore, expose more skin. “I belong to you,” he breathed, his eyes half-lidded as Sylvain moved his hand lower. “I _have_ belonged to you."

Sylvain reached for Felix’s hairpin, pulling it out — Felix’s hair spilled into his palm like water. All of the reservations he had were long forgotten once more as he cupped Felix’s cheek, warm and flushed, his eyes looking at him, only him.

Their lips met again, all passion and violence, and it felt like love.

-

Throughout the night, the cicadas masked the sound of their shifting sheets, the soft sighs and moans. Felix was patient as Sylvain undressed him slowly; though he wanted nothing more than to tug Felix out of his robes, to lay him bare so he could have all of him, he knew better than anyone else the sweetness of learning a secret. Every sliver of skin was a secret kept and then revealed. Every kiss Felix allowed him was forgiveness for every time he touched someone that wasn’t him.

Sex had long become a chore — an act he had to sustain — but it was different to be with Felix. Time seemed to stretch, the night lasting forever; there was no information to ferret out, no goals to accomplish, nothing that needed to be said — only the feeling of Felix’s hands, his mouth, his body to lose himself in.

“Who knew you were so bold,” Sylvain murmured dazedly as they laid beside each other, resting.

Felix hummed. “Did you expect me to shy away like a maiden?”

“A little bit.”

Stretching languidly, Felix unashamedly pressed his body against Sylvain’s, his arms winding around his neck. “We’ve known each other too long for things like that.”

Sylvain sighed helplessly as Felix nibbled on his neck. He didn’t allow others to mark his skin, but he wouldn’t deny Felix the pleasure. “How long?” He asked, wrapping his arms around Felix’s waist, still elated that he could.

Felix released his neck, only to tuck his head against it, fingers pressing against the marks. “Since I saw you sneaking into tents when we were in the army,” he grumbled, as if recounting an unpleasant memory. He glanced up at him. “I thought you knew.”

“I didn’t,” Sylvain said, pressing his lips against Felix’s head in apology. “I never knew you were watching.”

Felix huffed. “I thought you were in the business of knowing secrets.”

“I don’t know yours,” Sylvain admitted. “You’re very good at keeping them.”

Felix was quiet for a few moments before he pulled back, looking up at him. “I’ve never understood why you did this,” he said. “Pretending to be disloyal, to be something you’re not.”

“It’s where my use lies. Using others, being used.” He sighed, pressing his forehead against Felix’s. “Never belonging to anyone.”

Felix lifted his hand to his cheek. “I meant what I said,” he said firmly.

Sylvain smiled, if only on reflex. "There are still things I’ll need to do.”

"It doesn't matter to me," Felix said. "As long as you know you're mine."

It was enough, Sylvain told himself as Felix moved over him, kissing him deeply. For the night, it was enough.

-

Accompanied with a peony:

_I care not for your  
entanglements so long as  
you return to me.  
I need no words so long as  
you are stained with my color_

“Those are impressive,” a courtier remarked with a leer. “I thought you didn’t like the possessive ones.”

Sylvain smiled faintly, aware of the purple bruises decorating his neck, only barely covered by the collar of his robes. “I made an exception for this one.”

-

Delivered with a single forget-me-not:

_Flowers overgrown  
but I tend to only one.  
I wish to be like  
the lover who never leaves,  
forever watching it bloom_

“It’s surprisingly effective,” Sylvain told him as they sat together in the doorway leading to his courtyard, watching the rain fall. “They think I have a favorite, so they try harder to please me.”

“Is that so.”

Sylvain looked at Felix, leaning against the door frame. “Don’t pout.”

“I’m not pouting.”

Inching closer to him, Sylvain tried to catch Felix’s gaze, but Felix stubbornly ignored him. He was honest with Felix, about where he went, who he was with, but it couldn’t be easy having him as a lover, even though he knew his other relationships were only a means to an end. He knew if Felix had anyone else, he would have found a way to keep them apart by any means necessary; Felix was restraining himself for his sake.

“I haven’t been sleeping with them." Felix glanced at him as Sylvain drew circles on the back of Felix’s hand. “There are other ways to get people to talk. Sometimes the chase is enough to loosen lips.” Then he added, “And I’ve managed to procure a sleep aid to keep the eager ones at bay.”

“You don’t need to change your methods for me. Especially if it means prolonging your charade.”

“There’s no need for you to be such a martyr,” Sylvain teased gently. “It doesn’t feel right for me either. You’re the only one I want to return to.”

Felix finally looked at him, relenting for a kiss. He sighed, his fingers lingering on his cheek when Sylvain pulled away.

“What’s wrong?”

Felix looked away again, his expression troubled. “I received word from my father,” he said quietly. “He’s requested my assistance in defending our province. Dimitri has approved it.”

Sylvain ran his fingers idly through Felix’s hair. “I see,” he uttered, the sense of dread he had been trying to keep at bay returning. Felix was leaving for longer stretches of time, the conflicts throughout the provinces worsening, fights beginning to break out along the country borders. The war he had feared was at their doorstep. If Rodrigue had called for Felix, there was no doubt his own father would be asking for him soon as well. “When are you leaving?”

“Not going to beg me to stay?”

Sylvain looked at him. “Would you if I did?” He could certainly put on a show for the court.

Felix quirked a grin; Sylvain sulked. “It won’t be for long.”

Sylvain leaned against Felix’s shoulder. “You don’t know that,” he mumbled softly. He asked again, “When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

Sylvain’s heart ached as Felix closed his hand over his. There was already so much lost time between them. His love only grew each day, their farewells growing more painful each time. “Don’t go,” he said anyway. “Stay with me.”

The problem with loving someone honest, Sylvain realized as Felix kissed him again, was that he could not even offer a comforting lie.

-

From Gautier, inscribed on a fan of hydrangeas, tied with a deep red silk cord:

_The marks you left me  
lingering like searing brands —  
still I long for you.  
I will mourn each fading shade  
during these cold lonely nights_

-

From Fraldarius, written on yellowed paper in diluted ink, a magpie feather tucked in the folds:

_In these stormy winds,  
the dark sky stays persistent.  
May rain comfort you  
the way it now comforts me,  
like your quiet tears on my cheek_

-

From Gautier, tied to a bouquet of gladiolus:

_I dreamt of a bloom,  
plucked, blushing pink and fragrant.  
If only I could  
brush those soft petals again,  
taste the sweet white-colored dew_

-

From Fraldarius, crumpled and tied around the handle of a short sword:

_At a time like this,  
you dream of blushing flowers.  
I worry the years  
spent with only your sword have  
dulled the sharp edge of its blade_

-

From Gautier, inscribed on a pressed maple leaf:

_The crisp autumn winds  
pass once more. I find myself  
envious of its  
caress, able to go where  
it pleases, touch what it wants_

-

From Gautier, on a torn cloth lined with fox fur:

_Strange how the snow can  
cover the land in a night,  
but I don’t feel cold.  
This body remembers your  
warmth, as I hope yours does mine_

-

From Gautier, written on paper, wrinkled on the edges:

_I’ll admit, I fear  
your visits in dreams, as though  
you have walked into  
a room I cannot enter.  
This promised heart waits, restless_

-

From Fraldarius, tied to one of Felix’s swords with a sapphire silk cord:

_A vow is a vow.  
The nights spent waiting for dawn  
soon end. Forgive me —  
I wished to ease your sorrow  
with something more than my words_

“You didn’t write back for _months_ —”

Bodies tumbling onto the futon. “I was busy,” Felix murmured against Sylvain’s skin, “fighting a war.”

"That's no excuse." Sylvain tangled his fingers in Felix’s hair, pulling, earning himself a growl and a hard bite on his neck. “Ah—I thought you had died—”

Felix brushed his lips softly against the bite mark. “I clearly didn’t.”

“That’s not—” Cloth ripping, a dismayed sigh. “—the point.”

Pulling his mouth off Sylvain’s neck, Felix shot him a deeply annoyed look even as his hands moved to undress him. “Shall I leave and write you a more suitable poem then?” He asked flatly.

Sylvain huffed, letting Felix continue to ruin his new robes in his efforts to get to his skin. He could hardly stay angry at Felix after seeing him for the first time in five years, after nearly falling to despair when he didn’t receive a reply for months; he was unable to even celebrate the end of the war when he was still uncertain of Felix’s fate. He sighed when Felix leaned up to capture his lips in a kiss, his hands cradling his face.

"My heart has returned to me,” Sylvain breathed between frantic kisses, as Felix pushed him down on the futon. "I feel whole again."

“Enough poetry,” Felix whispered roughly, though Sylvain could feel him smile against his lips.

-

Sylvain awoke again at dawn, squinting at the shaft of light shining on his face, the screen door having been left ajar last night to usher in the cool draft brought by the rain as they made fervent love. Despite his long journey and the arduous task of soothing Sylvain’s years-long loneliness throughout the night, Felix was already awake, sitting up, looking out into the courtyard. He looked even more beautiful in the morning light, his long hair spilling down his bare shoulders, almost brushing mid-back. He had new scars for Sylvain to trace with his lips, as apologies for not bearing them in his stead. A deep red tassel hung on his right ear, vibrant against his hair.

Sylvain pressed a kiss against his hip; Felix turned, smiling softly.

“Good morning,” Sylvain greeted.

“Morning,” Felix returned. “Sleep well?”

Sylvain nodded, sighing happily as Felix ran his fingers through his hair. Dreams and fantasies didn’t compare to the real thing. “Tell me about your last five years,” he requested, wanting to hear more of Felix’s voice, as there was little opportunity to talk during the night.

“There isn’t much to tell. I slept, I ate, I fought. I thought of you.” Felix brushed Sylvain’s hair out of his eyes before he looked away. “I’m sorry I worried you. I thought focusing on the battles would hasten my return.”

“You’ve become sentimental,” Sylvain teased, warm with fondness. “I suppose I’ll have to forgive you.”

Felix huffed, his thumb brushing against Sylvain’s ear. “What about you?”

“The same,” he answered. “It was too bad you didn’t see me on the battlefield. I heard I was quite dashing.”

“I’m sure you received many propositions while I was away.”

“Jealous?” Sylvain smiled at the sight of Felix's slight scowl. He had missed that too. “I turned them away, of course. After all, I belong to you.”

Emitting a pleased hum, Felix looked around his room. He saw his sword already mounted on the wall, as well as the short sword he had sent two years ago, his lips curling up in a small smirk. “Did you keep all of the things I sent you?”

Ignoring the protests of his pleasantly sore body, Sylvain reached for the lacquered box he kept within arm’s reach, sitting up as he pulled it between them. In it, he kept everything he had received from Felix, the letters and the smaller gifts: the rare bird feathers, flowers carefully pressed and preserved, handmade brushes he had intended to save for future correspondence, small carved wooden figurines. Felix picked up the last thing Sylvain received from him, the sapphire silk cord, the hue matching his robes.

“Now that the war is over, will you be returning to your old duties?” Felix asked, unraveling the cord.

“My loose reputation has taken quite a beating in the last five years while I was wrought with lovesickness,” Sylvain sighed as he watched, curious. “I fear it will only be whisper campaigns and diplomacy from now on.”

“A shame.”

“A shame indeed,” Sylvain agreed as they shared a smile.

Outside, magpies chattered, greeting the morning as they sat, bowed toward each other, Sylvain watching Felix separate the silk threads before carefully tying them together. Once completed, Felix held it against his palm, a tassel identical to his, looking up to meet Sylvain’s gaze before he lifted it to Sylvain’s left ear, mirroring his own.

“Then everyone can know you belong to me,” Felix said softly. “Will you accept it?”

Sylvain stared into Felix’s eyes, glinting under the rays of light shining through the trees in the courtyard, his heart stirring with emotion. He smiled, lifting his hand to touch Felix’s, holding it against his cheek. “Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try writing something...pretty! There’s little details here and there but I didn’t want to end up cluttering the notes even more with Footnotes so if you noticed them or are curious, I would love to know! Regardless, I still hope you enjoyed the story!
> 
> [Here are some drawings I've done showing how I imagine them in this AU :)](https://twitter.com/i/events/1275508444225654785)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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